


a lonely ghost (uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear)

by burnells



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, almost-crackfic that kind of slowly descends into a depressing shithole, also torture but it's a 1984 fic what did you expect, but its honestly more like 'we're stuck here so we may as well learn to tolerate each other', but its the internet and i'm anon so like fuck that haha, ghost au thingy, i should feel embarrassed publishing this, i'd say its slowburn, i'm just warning you in advance buddy ok, neither die that way tho so, oh you know!, ooc as fuck i'm sorry, so mcd is there from the start
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-09-23 10:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnells/pseuds/burnells
Summary: Being a ghost is tiring,Being haunted by a ghost, even moreso.O'Brien wishes he didn't have to learn that firsthand.





	1. 1

Ghosts are nothing like the media makes them out to be.

Common proletarian fiction often made ghost hunting seem like a devious task that only devil-worshippers would involve themselves in, and suggested that ghosts could only be summoned under very specific conditions. The entire experience was made out to be spooky and thrilling. There were people getting their necks crushed, scared citizens being chased down and tormented to death, and even stories about people who were mistreated horribly in life turning into ghosts. On the flipside, there were the people who believed that ghosts were fun, or even just misunderstood sad beings. They would spend their money on useless devices, convinced that they'd help them "communicate with the dead", and were ecstatic at the tiniest sound picked up by them.

Real ghosts, of course, were not like that.

O'Brien could say that for a fact, because he knew.

It had happened one evening, after his work in the Ministry of Love for the day had finished. He had tortured thoughtcriminals, monitored and checked over incriminating footage, accomplished some important tasks at the Ministry of Truth, and had shot a past dissident after they'd entirely repented. To say the least, his day had been productive. Not that he minded, of course: all of his work was for Big Brother, and that was all that mattered.

Now that the telescreen was off, he could finally relax and feel at ease. He was trusted enough not to be monitored (or, at least, he believed he was: whether Big Brother chose to monitor him or not was up to him, but O'Brien prided himself on being reliable enough for him not to have to), so he didn't have to withstand the irritating static of the telescreen whilst he was preoccupied with other things.

He turned the page of the book he was reading (an updated newspeak dictionary, to be precise) quietly, using his free hand to take a sip of the wine he had poured out for himself, when he felt his glasses sliding down his face.

Taking one hand away from his book, he pushed his glasses further up on his nose, replacing them at an angle so that he could finish the beautifully lacking page for the letter B.

Thar was, until he found his glasses sliding down his face again.

O'Brien frowned, taking the glasses off for a second and peering at them. He couldn't see much, due to his incredible lack of vision without them, but they didn't seem to be any larger or wider than they were previously. Slightly annoyed, he pressed the middle of the pair of glasses up to his nose, tilting his head up to continue reading the dictionary without the possibility of the glasses slipping off.

After a few minutes, he relaxed, his head rested on the back of the armchair comfortably as he examined the definitions and phrases. Undoubtedly, he wouldn't need to use Newspeak for at least a few years, yet it was always good to know the language in advance. He let his eyes rest on words and definitions that were particularly new to him. It was calming.

Suddenly, his glasses flew off his face at an alarming speed, clattering on the thinly carpeted floor beneath him. For a moment, O'Brien just sat there in silence for a few seconds, too outraged and somewhat in awe of the incredible lack of physics to do anything.

Eventually, he just huffed, his face going slightly red as he put the dictionary down on the table beside him. Perhaps he'd just go to bed for the night. After all, it was getting late, and his mind wasn't patient enough for any more annoyance. He could always get a new pair of glasses in the morning.

As he picked the aforementioned glasses up and slid them onto his face, he felt more in control of his thinking and mind than he had ever been. He smiled to himself, relishing in the feeling of ignorance.

"Hello."

O'Brien staggered backwards, falling back into his chair with a loud thud and knocking his head on the side of it as he shrieked. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight he saw before him.

His eyes twitched. He took his glasses back off and put them on again. And again. And again.

And yet, the disturbing figure remained before him, as if to haunt him from past the grave. The disturbing, smirking, semi-transparent, legless and bleeding-from-the-side-of-his-head figure.

The figure of dead thoughtcriminal Winston Smith.

Stumbling on his words, O'Brien clutched the chair he sat upon for dear life. "...O-Okay, very funny," he stuttered, trying and failing to look the figure dead in the eye. "Good joke."

Despite his proclamation, the figure remained staring at him. "Comrade O'Brien," it spoke, a sad smile on its face. "Aren't you glad to see me again?"

At this point, the Inner Party member was seething, afraid by what appeared to him to be a perfect hologram. "N-No, I certainly am not. ...Stop this, right now."

"There's no need to be like that, O'Brien. I've been absolutely dying to see you." He put an extra funny emphasis on the word "dying", and O'Brien caught on clearly to the horrible subtext laying beneath it.

O'Brien merely looked back in fear. "You're not real," he stated, closing his eyes and pressing on his temples. The statement came out more uneasy than he would have liked, but he couldn't help it.

Winston pointed to the side of his own head, floating further close to O'Brien. "That's no way to treat an old 'friend'," he protested, sliding up so that he was inches away from the living man. "And of course I'm not. I'm dead. The bullet you shoved in my head is still there, see?"

For a moment, O'Brien tried to close his eyes, but eventually opened them to the bloody head and visible inner skull of Winston's ghostly figure. The blood seemed to seep through his hair and drip down upon his dreary ghost overalls, which ended in a wispy tail at the bottom of his body.

He let out a defeated sigh. He needed to get more sleep.

As O'Brien turned back to his Newspeak dictionary, Winston let out a huff of disapproval. "Don't just ignore me, Comrade!" he groaned, watching O'Brien's glasses vehemently as they slid off his face.

The man, however, simply took hold of them with his hand, holding them up at the bridge of his nose so that they couldn't move. Winston once again complained. "You're not supposed to ignore me!" he moaned. "At least listen to my last request!"

"No," O'Brien replied flatly. "And you're not our Comrade anymore."

At this, Winston glided up closer to O'Brien and waved his semi-transparent hand in front of the dictionary. This didn't seem to do much good, in all seriousness, since the man could see right through it (and, for the record, was already planning a trip the next morning for more victory gin and a prescription of hallucination medicine). This seemed to annoy Winston even more than he was already, to the point where he merely sank down onto his knees next to O'Brien's armchair and put his bloody head on the unoccupied armrest.

O'Brien continued to ignore the ghostly figure before him. He was probably having a bad dream, or, even worse, it was a challenge set for him by the Party. No matter what, it was not to be trusted. He would report his suspicions of a potential malicious prank the next morning at the Ministry of Truth, would get his medication, and would forget all about the vaporised Winston Smith.

From the way he sat up from his slumped position on the armchair, however, it was clear that Winston wasn't going to forget about O'Brien. Putting his hand up to his mouth to whisper, Winston finally spoke again.

"Comrade O'Brien has a foot fetish."

At this, the man to the side of him's eye seemed to twitch. He turned the page of the dictionary he had picked back up, his expression slightly more malignant than it was previously.  
Winston rested his head on his hand amusedly. "He's not responding?" he asked, seemingly to himself. "That means he does. O'Brien has a thing for feet."

O'Brien's head visibly reeled, merely encouraging Winston more.

"Comrade O'Brien sucks toes," he sang rhythmically, repeating the phrase a few times loudly to let it fully sink in. After what was somewhere around the fifth time, O'Brien caved.

"I do NOT suck toes!" he shouted, his face flushed in anger.

Winston looked overjoyed. "So you ARE listening to me."

"I am not!"

"O'Brien..." Winston tried to move the man's glasses again, but to no avail, succeeding only in wriggling them against his hand. "Look, I know you want me to go away as much as I WANT to go away, but I promise to leave you alone if you listen to my request. I'm begging you..."

O'Brien thought to himself for a moment. Encouraging hallucinations was a bad thing, but trying to ignore them and letting them build up seemed worse. If he answered Winston, maybe he could get rid of whatever was causing him to appear in his brain.

"Fine," he said defeatedly, resting the hand that was on his glasses on the armchair. "What is the matter?"

At this, Winston sighed. "Finally," he murmured to himself, clearing his throat before continuing. "Well, I'm a ghost now. And it seems like I can't pass on to an afterlife..."

O'Brien nodded. "M-hm."

"...And I don't think ghosts can pass on with unfinished business. So it would make sense that my unfinished business would be with you, since you-" Winston paused here, gesturing towards his bloody head, "-well, you know."

"M-hm."

"So, since I have to settle this with you and make the whole thing between us even, I'd really appreciate it if you could do me a favour."

"M-hm."

"And maybe please violently kill yourself."

"M-hm."

Winston blinked surprisedly, looking at O'Brien with wide eyes. "Wait, you mean you'll do it?"

O'Brien peered back at him through the orange light reflecting from his glasses. "Absolutely not."

At this, Winston sighed exasperatedly, slumping by the side of the armchair once more. After a few seconds of angrily staring at O'Brien, the Inner Party member's glasses flew off his face again. This time, he wasn't quick enough to catch them, and they clattered against the floor on the other side of the room as Winston got up from his place once more.

Letting out a groan of annoyance, O'Brien sat back into the armchair, not even bothering to get his glasses anymore. The hallucinations seemed to be self-destructive and stemmed from some fear inside of him. If he could be more loyal to the party, this ghostly figure would most certainly go away. Yes, that was it.

He squinted his eyes at the figure of Winston, who, even through O'Brien's blurry gaze, seemed to be doing something noticeable at the back of the room. Sniffing, he went to pick up his glasses, placing them on his face once more before walking toward's Winston's suspicious activity.

O'Brien walked over to the side-table and observed the magically-flying lighter hovering above his wooden countertop. To Winston's imminent dismay, he took hold of it, throwing it swiftly into the memory hole in the corner. O'Brien was many things, but an idiot who couldn't recognise when somebody was obviously trying to kill them was not one of them.

Winston sat down next to the table, resting his head on his propped-up hand. "Fine, that's fine," he said meekly as O'Brien quickly held his glasses in place to prepare for the possibility of them flying off again. Surprisingly, though, Winston didn't try to move them, choosing merely to look O'Brien in the eye instead. "I'll just kill you in your sleep, maybe, or something."

At this, O'Brien remembered how late it was. Looking at Winston, he shrugged. If the man was truly a hallucination or a trick set by the party, he shouldn't be able to actually hurt him. All he needed to do was to get hold of some medication and victory gin (and a better, less temperamental pair of glasses, he noted to himself,) and then he would be relieved again.

"I'm going to bed," he said bluntly, scratching his head and retiring into one of the other rooms in the apartment immediately after he said the phrase.

Winston glided after him, his wispy ghost tail trailing behind. "Did you not hear me? I said I'd kill you if you did," he reminded him gently.

"You can't harm me," O'Brien said, the traces of a smirk on his face. "You're merely a hallucination, Winston. Now, leave the room while I change."

O'Brien's glasses flew off his face once more, and the older man sighed as he heard Winston mumble in a disgruntled manner. He was far too sober for this.

When he was finished, Winston returned back into the room, watching O'Brien climb into his king-sized bed (which, he made sure to point out, O'Brien did NOT deserve, especially not when some Outer Party members had barely anything) and sitting haphazardly on the other side of it. As O'Brien turned out the lights, Winston remained in his position, and O'Brien paused before speaking.

"Arent you going to move?" he asked.

Winston turned back to look at him. "I can't," he answered. "I'm going to kill you in your sleep, remember?"

"...Yes, of course. But I'd prefer for you to actually let me get to sleep first."

Moodily, Winston got up from his comfortable position, mumbling something about Inner Party members being snobs as he floated through the wall. O'Brien smiled proudly to himself.

Tomorrow, he could find himself a cure for these wildly inaccurate delusions he had been having. He could take it, and love the Party and Big Brother, and Winston Smith would be no more.

As he closed his eyes, he tried not to question why that last fact saddened him slightly.


	2. 2

O'Brien hardly got any sleep that night.

At 1am, he was woken up by the sense of cold metal touching his palm, and found himself holding a metal fork and lying next to an open plug socket with ten candles surrounding him. Touché.

At 2am, he was woken up once more by the agonising sensation of a badly-tied noose around his neck. This time, twenty candles were surrounding him. He was almost impressed by the aesthetic of it all before he realised he was about to die.

At 4am, he was woken up again by the overly-bright lights of his bathroom, and found himself floating fully-dressed next to a full bath with thirty candles around it and his own electrified toaster neatly inside of it. (That, Winston has told him with a mixture of pride and disappointment, had been the hardest to set up).

At 5am, he was woken up ONCE AGAIN by the agonising pain of an almost fatal cut on his wrist by a floating knife. Winston specified that he was going to put fourty candles around him, but that he ran out and couldn't find any more in O'Brien's apartment that weren't scented and/or in use.

At 6am, he was woken up by his alarm clock.

O'Brien groaned, and Winston gave a snarky smile. "How are you feeling this morning, Comrade O'Brien?"

The older man walked right through him, frowning as he stepped tentatively over the still-tied rope and the bent fork. He didn't grace Winston with an answer, and Winston frowned.

"I did work hard last night," he said, floating over to O'Brien as he made his way into the flat's living room. The telescreen had flickered itself back on again, and O'Brien was pouring himself out a mug of Victory Coffee. "I even tied myself a noose for that one hanging thing."

O'Brien refused to look up, instead choosing to focus all of his attention on the whole mug of extra-strong victory espresso that he would need to get through the day. "Wonderful," he replied.

Winston chuckled at this and sat back. "It is. It was difficult, though.. When you're a ghost, you can only control things with your mind. Not that easy to tie a knot using your brain, so I almost scrapped the noose-tying altogether. I did also have plans to have you throw yourself off the roof, but I didn't go ahead with that. You know, because it would be a relatively painless death, and you have to suffer for me to be free..."

O'Brien stirred the ground beans into the mug and took a single sip before placing it back onto the table. He had been counting on his visions of Winston being caused by sleep paralysis, honestly, but it didn't matter much. As long as he found a way to get rid of whatever sickness had overcome him before anybody noticed, he would be just fine.

In the meantime, though, if nobody was watching, he supposed it wouldn't hurt to indulge his broken mind a little.

"I mean," he replied curtly, "it couldn't have truly been that great of a plan if I'm still alive. Either that, or you're a mere delusion."

At this, Winston looked up. "Huh?"

"It's exactly as I said. If you were truly a ghost looking to kill me, should I not be dead by now?" O'Brien took a sip of his coffee after he had finished his sentence, closing his eyes as he drank. When he opened them, though, he nearly dropped his mug.

A chef's knife was centred to point right into his Adam's apple, hovering far too close to him for it to be comfortable. Winston's gaze from the other side of the room was volatile and dangerous, and the sturdiness in the way the knife was angled said a lot about his intentions.

"I can kill you," he said simply, his tone of voice certainly implying a threat. "I can, and I could, and I will, when I want to, on my own terms." With every small statement Winston made, the knife drover closer to the centre of O'Brien's head, threatening to end it all right there and then.

O'Brien gulped, not much appreciating the pressure. "Well," he said decidedly. "Alright, then." That was enough delusions for one day.

The two stayed in silence for a few minutes, Winston haphazardly stationed over the windowledge, until O'Brien finished drinking and made his way over to his bedroom.

When he arrived, he went straight for the chest of drawers he was oh-so familiar with from his daily life in the Party. When he took his Inner Party uniform from the wardrobe and turned around, however, he noticed Winston still standing there. He looked around him for a second before speaking.

"Winston, I'm changing. Please can you leave?"

Winston laughed sardonically. "I thought I was an illusion, O'Brien. What on earth could I do?"

O'Brien sighed, pushing his fingers towards his temples. It didn't matter. He was right; he was just an illusion. Turning around and taking off his shirt, O'Brien felt slightly more easy than before.

"Comrade O'Brien, is your back okay?"

Quipping around, O'Brien noticed Winston, obviously still present in the room, staring deeply at him. It took him a second to realise what Winston was concerned about. "It's fine," he snapped, hurriedly turning around and throwing his shirt on over it.

"I really don't think it is..." Winston seemed to tense up slightly, and for a second O'Brien thought there was a hint of genuine concern in his voice. Nevertheless, he persisted.

"There's no problem," he finally said, buttoning the top button of his shirt as he did so. "It seems that I'm not the only one seeing illusions, Winston. Now, get out."

Winston opened his mouth to argue for a second before closing it back shut, floating through the wall and choosing not to discuss the topic further. O'Brien was at least grateful for the remaining 2 minutes of privacy that he allowed him to change in.

As soon as he was done, he flicked on the telescreen in the bedroom. At once, the screen lit up, filling the darkened room with a hazy green light.

"Martin," he said. 

At this, the screen began to buffer for a few seconds before a page of information displayed itself. O'Brien examined it, fiddling with his glasses in order to properly read its contents. Soon after, he spoke again.

"Confirm. Urgent. Answer speedwise." 

The screen began to buffer once again for around ten seconds before a familiar beep came. The screen buzzed to life, colour coming to the picture as a face O'Brien knew well came upon it.

"Comrade," Martin said, dressed already in his serving uniform. "What is it that you need?"

O'Brien wasted no time in answering him. "Medicine, Martin," he said hastily. "Auditory and visual hallucinations. I do believe they sell the pills in Miniplenty, if you were unable to find them in the hospital for me."

"Of course, Comrade. Right to it."

The screen buzzed away and the telescreen turned off almost as quickly as it had turned on. O'Brien reflected. That was what he liked about Martin: he wasted no time with anything. O'Brien merely gave him the word to do something, and he instantaneously went ahead with it. Big Brother likely promoted him because he was so hardworking. Outer Party members like that, O'Brien believed, were the most devoted followers of Big Brother (behind the Inner, of course).  
"Hey, hey, O'Brien, come over here, watch this a second!"

O'Brien scowled. Then, there were OTHER Outer Party members. Reluctantly, he switched the telescreen off completely. It was fine, he reassured himself. Martin would be there with the medicine soon. He wouldn't have to endure this for much longer.

When he finally found the source of the voice from the bathroom, he realised that he should have never allowed Winston to leave the room in the first place. He almost tore up at the mere sight of the place. 

Winston was relaxing in the bath (or, rather, floating downwards in the bath, as it was painfully obvious that he couldn't properly lie in it like a human). The bath itself was, quite frankly, horrible- it was clear from the strange scent of milk and lavender and apricot that Winston had never mixed a bath (or, O'Brien figured sadly, even had the experience of using what the Party had dubbed as "Bath Bombs") before. 

What was even more horrifying, though, was the far-too-excessive use of his Big Brother branded Bubble Bath. O'Brien didn't know there was that much in the bottle itself, and yet Winston seemed to have caked the walls in bubbles. It shocked him that he hadn't heard the ruckus from the room over before it occured to him that Winston probably moved everything with his ghost powers. Nonetheless, his bathroom was ruined.

"What have you done?!" he exclaimed, immediately going to recover his now-empty basket of bath bombs. Perfect. It didn't matter that much, though. He'd just ask Martin to pick him some up once he arrived with O'Brien's medicine.

Winston smiled his stereotypical "this-is-revenge-for-shooting-me-in-the-fucking-head" smile, feigning innocence as he raised a bubble of water above himself. "I'm just using your Inner Party facilities, O'Brien," he said, releasing the water (which still, to his own disappointment, went straight through him). "Thought I'd take advantage of all of this nice stuff you have, since I'm kind of staying here now."

"Lovely," O'Brien responded grimly.

"It is! I'm glad you think so, too. I was kind of worried about using up all of your precious Inner Party soaps, but I figured you won't really be needing them after I'm done with you." Winston floated a rubber duck above him, letting it sail in the air before plonking it in the toilet with a squeaking sound. "Oh, but that's not what I called you here for. Here, here, watch."

O'Brien tried to say, "What?", but before he was able to, his numb arm jolted up and all of his fingers except for the middle went down. 

"Oh my GOD..." Winston gave a giggle to himself. "I can't believe it actually worked."

Taking control of his hand, O'Brien undid the gesture instantly, convinced now even moreso that Winston wasn't a ghost and merely a hallucination. "How on EARTH did you do that?!" 

Winston swirled the water around a little before snickering to himself. "If it's numb enough, and you can move it, so can I." O'Brien felt his left index finger and thumb come together and put his hand into a fist to regain control. He wasn't about to do anything else anytime soon.

"Perfect," he muttered, clearly under duress. "I barely slept last night, I'm having hallucinations, the bathroom wall is covered in soap, and now I can't stop making stupid hand gestures. Holy shit."

Winston laughed for a few seconds at his reaction before he realised O'Brien wasn't reacting to him. His laugh slowly faded out before the room became unbearably silent. O'Brien looked to the floor, spacing out and feeling too tired to want to save himself. 

It was easy enough for Winston to see the consequences of his actions. Cautiously, he spoke again. "...Uh, O'Brien... I'll clean it, if you really want me to." Hearing no reply, he added, "And the candles. And the toaster. ...And maybe the knife, since it's not very useful for torture in the long run."

O'Brien looked up for a second. Then, he scoffed. "You should be trying to kill me," he breathed heavily. "Why on earth would you help me? Are you really that weak, even in the afterlife, Winston?"

"Cleaning up doesn't affect your date of death," Winston replied, choosing not to respond to the purposefully cruel implications of the previous sentence. "I mean, the least I can do is keep you kinda relaxed beforehand. Since, you know, you're going to die anyway, and it's gonna be unbearably painful."

O'Brien took a while to respond. Encouraging Winston as a delusion truly hadn't worked for him much previously, yet he felt a sense of calmness from his words. It was ridiculous, really- the idea of a man such as himself being comforted by the words of a criminal, a dead catastrophe undeserving of life under such a wonderful law as Big Brother's- and yet he felt somehow more listened to than he ever had before. 

Well, the telescreens were off, and they had been for a long time. And the place did really need cleaning, especially so that Martin wouldn't think he was a psychopath when he arrived. And if Winston really was going to kill him, it'd be good to have at least some use for him before he ascended after killing O'Brien. Taking a deep sigh, O'Brien finally spoke.

"Just let me help you," he answered, looking Winston in the eye sympathetically. "You don't know where everything goes, after all."

At this, Winston gave a shocked and yet surprised smile. Immediately, he got to work, pulling the plug from the bath and collecting the patches of bubble bath on the walls with both his hands and his power. O'Brien gently took the toaster away from the bathtub and placed it on the counter, to be attended to by Martin later on. Winston took the candles, O'Brien took the noose. Winston took the duck from the toilet, to be cleaned and made better, and O'Brien took the crushed up pieces of bath bomb, to be disposed of and left behind.

Their tidying session took less time than O'Brien originally expected (probably due to Winston's ghostly talent of being able to pick up small objects with his mind), yet the two were still frequently interrupted by each other, whether it was with Winston making a distracted O'Brien do the sex hand gesture or with O'Brien throwing a rubber duck straight at the head of a flinching Winston. 

At one point, Winston accidentally spilled water on the floor of the bathroom just before O'Brien walked in, leading to the latter immediately slipping. Shockingly to Winston, O'Brien, who seemed in a good mood from the sense of fulfilment given to him by the cleaning, found this mistake of his absolutely hilarious and didn't stop chuckling about it until the two were done. By the time they were done, the entire apartment was just as it had been prior to Winston's appearance (except for the rubber duck, which Winston had opted to draw a mustache on whilst O'Brien was cleaning the final parts of the kitchen).

"Well," O'Brien said. "That was much easier than I thought. I never thought I'd say this, but thank you, Winston."

Winston smiled. "I've worked with worse people. Besides," he added, "as I said, it's the least I can do."

O'Brien flashed back to the previous conversation the two had had. Ah, yes. "Well, it doesn't really matter," he said, pushing up his glasses. "After all, you'll be gone for me soon."

At this, Winston laughed for a couple of seconds before realising O'Brien was being serious. "...You mean it?!" he exclaimed, visibly upset. "After all of that, you're just gonna ditch me, O'Brien?!"

"Well," O'Brien pointed out, "you are trying to kill me. Big Brother, on the other hand, wants to save me." He sat down on his armchair, hand resting on the Newspeak dictionary on the arm that he had been reading the night before. "Big Brother wouldn't let somebody like me be taken by somebody like you, even if I didn't block you out myself."

Winston looked almost upset at O'Brien's decision. Quickly, though, his sadness turned into anger. "'Big Brother will save you,'" he repeated, scoffing. "Big Brother didn't save me, O'Brien! What makes you think he'd save you?"

"I am no criminal, Winston," he said almost solemnly. "I am a useful Party member. I help control thoughtcriminals, I work in the Ministry of Truth. I control the masses, and I am on their side." At this point, he rose from his seat, towering above Winston in terms of size. 

Despite the difference, Winston didn't back down. Looking him hard in the eyes, he spoke again, his voice wavering. "You saw me in there," he said. "I was desperate. I was in need of help." 

He took a deep breath before continuing. "I was in need of help, O'Brien, and Big Brother shut me down instantly. He isn't on anybody's side. He'll kill everyone who says a single thing he doesn't like, and..." He paused for a second, his eyes meeting O'Brien's own. "...And he'll do it to you, too, O'Brien."

O'Brien paused for a second, thinking to himself. Big Brother could never hurt him, could he? Of course he couldn't- he'd have no reason to. O'Brien liked to think he was one of his hardest-working Inner Party member (if he did say so himself). Big Brother couldn't just toss him aside, could he? Surely he was worth something to Oceania. Surely his presence impacted the running of the state, helped operations to go smoothly. He wasn't completely replacable. He couldn't be. Winston was merely trying to get under his skin.

At this thought, O'Brien looked darkly at Winston, as if something unspeakable had just dawned on me. "Winston..." he started, trying to hide the unease that he felt within himself. "...You really... you're only want to kill me, don't you?"

"No!" Winston protested eagerly. Within seconds of his objection, though, he faltered. What was he supposed to say? His primary objective WAS to kill O'Brien. He could never rest in peace without equivalent damage being inflicted upon O'Brien by himself. Accidentally enjoying the company of a man he once believed to be the biggest sadist in Oceania was just an unfortunate side effect of him being tied up with O'Brien.

The lack of a response made O'Brien laugh bitterly. "I'm no idiot, Winston," he said, turning his gaze back down to the Newspeak dictionary. "Big Brother will always look out for me more than a criminal like you ever could."

Winston was about to retort when a noise ahead of O'Brien came. Both Winston and O'Brien turned to the door, resting their eyes on the figure emerging from it.

O'Brien breathed a sigh of relief. "Martin."

Martin gave no hint of emotion, taking a small paper box from the bag in his hand and giving it to O'Brien. "Take three every twenty-four hours, with water," he said, voice completely monotone.

"Thank you, Martin," O'Brien said, hastily taking the first tray of pills from the box. He flashed Winston (who appeared to be looking uneasy- likely because he knew he'd been defeated, O'Brien thought smugly,) a triumphant look. "I've won," it said. "Big Brother does love me."

Martin stood in the corner of the room, seeming to be waiting for O'Brien to take in the pill's contents. On cue, O'Brien pulled a wine glass from his cupboard, swiftly filling it up with water before taking a pill in his hand. Before he put the pill in his mouth, however, he heard Winston's voice from across the room.

"Wait," he said. 

O'Brien's gaze drifted over to Winston, who seemed to be examining Martin. After a few seconds of this, though, he remembered his values. He shouldn't care about Winston. Winston didn't care about him. Only Big Brother cared about him.

He swallowed the first pill down easily, taking it with the water. 

"O'Brien, stop," Winston said again, his voice slightly more urgent. No, O'Brien reminded himself. Winston doesn't exist anymore. Just Big Brother. Only Big Brother.

The second pill went down just as easily with water, and he swallowed it with no regret.

Winston suddenly began floating the glass of water in front of him, grabbing it from O'Brien's hands and smashing it to the floor. "O'Brien!" he shouted, clearly desperate. "Can you not see?!"

Oh, O'Brien could see just fine. He could see that Winston wasn't trying to kill him. His eyelids drooped, and he had to grip the table to stand up properly, but he knew that Big Brother would help him. Big Brother, after all, was the only one who he could turn to anymore.

The third pill, he dry-swallowed, weakly raising his head as he did so. He'd done it. Soon, Winston would be gone.

"What have you done?!" he heard Winston shout vaguely. "O'Brien, you idiot!" He almost sounded genuinely caring, but O'Brien put that down to the fact that he couldn't really hear him well. His vision was also getting hazy. The medication must be working, he thought happily. Soon enough, Winston would be no more.

His grip on the table suddenly slipped, and he fell down on his back, his hair and glasses strewn out across the floor. Wow, this medicine must be strong. Gradually, he began hearing the sound of thumping footsteps above him more and more. Ha, he must have missed a lot, what with strange visions of ghosts. Maybe it was somebody new who'd moved in. Maybe it was Big Brother, coming to check up on his great work. That would be nice.

A lot of men- people O'Brien found familiar, but couldn't quite place- suddenly bust down the door. Winston let out a cry. O'Brien remained still and unthinking for a few seconds until, within his tiredness, he finally understood what was happening to him. Horrified and unable to move, he felt handcuffs click together around his own hands, not dissimilar to the way he had treated thoughtcriminals previously. His legs were thrashing, but he wasn't the one controlling them. All he could do was watch in terror as he was taken away to be killed by the very people he once controlled.

The last thought he had before he slipped out of consciousness was that Winston was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro i hate myself
> 
> ok, i'm gonna be honest. upon publishing the first chapter of this, i already had ch2 written and was in the process of writing ch3, so i was like "yeah i can update w an ok schedule". after i posted ch1, though, i realised that the ch2 i wrote was really, really awful. to begin with, the story had no real path of progression, and o'brien basically just complained for the whole chapter (which is fair enough, but it was just so annoying and more ooc than usual, which you gotta know iS HELLA). because of this, i ended up rewriting the whole thing to set up more of the plot for ch3 and generally just develop o'brien and winston more (and i added an extra, like, 3500 words. yknow, just for good measure). as you can see, it didn't really work, but the point is i tried dsaghhfsd
> 
> special thanks to phil/daisy whO GODDAMN DREW FANART FOR MY FIC???? I WANT EVERYTHING SHE DREW AS MY PFP EVERYWHERE HER ART IS SO GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL AND IT MADE ME CRY. i honestly probably wouldn't have updated this fic if it weren't for her just always being way too nice. she's like. the hypewoman of the discord. who's unnecessarily self deprecating. phil if you're reading this i hope you do well on your eric birling essay <:,,^)
> 
> besides from that, hope u enjoyed more dumb stuff from a Random Loser On The Internet. this isn't beta read because it's 3am and i had, like, 3 cups of tea to get enough caffeine to stay up this late. i'll try and upload ch3 at some point in the future (mostly when i have more ideas on it, because i know how it goes but i need to fill in more of the character development lol). for now, gn! :-))

**Author's Note:**

> my brain: so, like, imagine ghostbusters...
> 
> me: yuh-huh
> 
> my brain: ...but reversed
> 
> me, through tears: amazing. write that the fuck down
> 
> anyway i promised i'd return and write more not-entirely-goddamn-depressing fic for this tag so here i am, again, publishing the start of a fic i wrote literal months ago and didn't continue until now. does this make any canon sense whatsoever? can my writing of o'brien sound any more ooc than it does currently? does this even make sense as obrinston anymore? and most importantly, do my parents regret my birth yet? find out next time on The Adventures Of Some Loser On The Internet's Stupid Fic Notes  
(ps: shoutout to my poor, poor friend who listens to my incessant rambling despite never having read 1984 themself and who helps me with my stupid aus by supplying dumb hcs and such. yes they came up with the goddamn foot fetish joke and i hate but love them for it,,, if you see this ty blue you're an icon)


End file.
